In this Order of Eastern Templars, I cannot help but feel that my guardian angel has departed.
Yet, I can feel the summoning power of her fluttering wings as they soar upon the celestial thermals of my inferior and frontal-lobular cognitive pathways.
There truly is a difference between magic and magick.
Having heard the echoes of menacing footsteps as they confidently follow the antiquarian hallways of Celtic castles, it is important that we cast our circles amidst this tantric ritual of ****** prowess.
Accessing the alternate universe is not dissimilar to a philosophical and mathematical manifestation of ambivalence.

The spirochetes of the ages embellish themselves in a mystical quartet, as our respirations reverberate across sanctimonious plateaus of Oedipus and Electra complexes.
Your celestial convictions are tasteful as they wistfully meander through the fuselage of hydrangea bushes and ***** foxgloves.
I can feel the beat of your apprehensive pulse.
As we applaud the demise of this psychological stage-show, where connected separations unravel their shameful mysteries into a vortex of deluded academia; it is evident when someone communicates deep convictions across pulsating swamps of cosmological hemispheres.
So, as we merge into this cataclysmic vortex of enshrinement, let us embrace the past understanding of future ambivalence where the beginning can only be understood within the context of the end.

The depths of an ancient forest remind me of an emotional fret board, where the essential oil pulsates her harmonic flow across intellectual biases and drips her captivating secretions of unreasonable discrimination from an interconnected network of fertile branches.
It is systemic in nature, where the vibrational level of subtlety satiates the thirst of the magician in his musical quest for beautiful obscenity, and where primitive percussion summons the spirits of forgotten composures.
It’s like a paradise lost, where plain attire is unexpectedly anticipated and flaunted with proud religious conformity and energetic shame.
How innocent are your malevolent intentions, oh student of silent and auditory aggression?
Your leaves are seductive, as they remind me of a copper tightrope across the chasms of a Western valley where the ground cries out her historical witness of ambivalence.
Although the anatomy of freedom is bound by socio-cultural constraints, it is wise to acknowledge those articulations of psychological politics which conveniently massage the ego into an oily land of aromatherapeutic abandonment.
The herbal essence of artistic projections will never rest, as their intensity resounds throughout the annals of cosmological animism.
I appreciate your openness when we talk, because reverb is a psychoacoustic wonder, where a myriad of pages are chiselled into the annals of our great hall of fame.

Vulnerability is characterised by a beautifully ambivalent experience for the majority of anthropological subjects, if the risk is indeed to be embraced.
But, haven’t we already surmounted the impossible ranges of mountainous biopsychosocial corridors in this geographical war against oblivion?
If we have, then let us raise our brazen shields whilst the cheerleading and aristocratic seductress chants her ceremonial and political letters of pronouncement.
Cosmological resistance of physical objects to any change in their sense of motion, speed or direction, is characterised by hilarity.
Yet, what does it matter?
It is likened to bursting forth from a position of submerged freedom of speech, where we must then tread precariously across uncertain ponds.
Stepping out from the metaphorical boat, we can acquaint ourselves with the beauty of The Vocal Artiste and conduct our transaction.

The hunter is beautifully horned, and I admire those roots of nature which are suggestive in their depth beyond mere herbalist remedy.
So, remove your robe amidst this prominent woodland rainfall, where the eerie silence echoes her morbid song throughout battlefield plateaus of fungal extravagance.
The Spirits of the North beckon me with their homecoming allurements, where flickering flames cast their captivating shadows across sacrificial altars where the netherworld respects the night.
Shape analysis may cast light upon those geographical lines where energetic geometry casts her undeniable history.
As owls perch upon the turrets of ancient church steeples, our English history is presently encompassed by a living ignorance, where branches are truly laden with meaning.
If you are acquainted with your neighbour, can you turn your head 180 degrees?

How disjointed is our formation, where the robes of the deceased are removed in the ancient catacombs of political espionage in the name of solidarity.
Are the concepts of “meaning” or “definition” limited to the unfathomable parameters of what we call “time”?
I need you to take the lead, where thermals amongst cirrus vertebratus formations generate a sense of lift in our seemingly jointed and articulated society.
Have you ever felt the power of a vice? If you have, then how fictitious is reality?
She is the Spirit of our Age, and the English countryside needs your dark and ghostly shadow.
As the vanity of composure is not dissimilar to a charismatic vortex, I bid you to release my lyrical heart into the stratosphere where proclamations of ambivalent identity understand the nature of sound.